


pumpkin spice

by Sodafly



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Tattoo Parlor, Anxiety, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-20
Updated: 2014-09-21
Packaged: 2018-02-14 01:00:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2171940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sodafly/pseuds/Sodafly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky tells himself, bitterly, that if he can shoot someone in the face, then he can order coffee. </p>
<p>And that’s how the Winter Soldier ends up third in line at a tiny coffee shop a few block away from the apartment, feeling like a disaster was about to happen</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 It’s going to be a disaster. Bucky can already feel it, the slow approach of an inevitable disaster that draws closer with every passing second. He doesn’t know which direction the disaster will come from, which put him even more on edge, but it’s lingering at the fringes and oozing through the gap between the door and floor and no one seems to be aware of it.  
  


 He hadn’t told his therapist this would be a bad idea out of fear she’d send him back to the men in white coats. However, he had told Natasha.  
  


“You’re going to be fine James” She reassured in that firm tone that tampered down on the hysteria bubbling up in his voice. “You can do this.”  
  


“No, no, I can’t fucking do this, I can’t even remember ever fucking doing this.” Bucky insisted, pacing the short length of hallway in front of the front door, phone pressed tightly to his ear. 

  
All in all, It hadn’t been so bad. He had been able to roll out of bed, shower, dress in something that wasn’t grey SHIELD issue sweatpants. Everything was in place, keys, wallet, money, coat pulled on in case it rained, a baseball cap shoved on his head at a last minute attempt at hiding away from the world. Everything was ready. He just couldn’t get through the fucking front door.  
  


“Take a deep breath. You’re going to be fine, you’re just going to go down, pick a shop at random and order coffee. Just one cup of coffee, and then you can go home. It’ll take thirty minutes max. You can do that.”

  
The deep breath rattles through his lungs. When put like that it doesn’t sound so bad. Bucky says as such which earns a triumphant huff down the phone.

  
“That’s more like it, make sure to order something good” And with a few final words of encouragement, Natasha was gone. With another deep breath, Bucky had forced himself out and slammed the front door a little too hard in his haste, knowing that if he didn’t move now he never would. Bucky tells himself, bitterly, that if he can shoot someone in the face, then he can order coffee.  
  


 And that’s how the Winter Soldier ends up third in line at a tiny coffee shop a few block away from the apartment, feeling like a disaster was about to happen.  
  


 Everything felt too hot, and he was super aware that nothing was covering his blind spots and this was such a bad idea. It isn’t even busy. The shop has stilled somewhere between the morning and lunch rush, with only two other people in the line and three more actually sitting down at the tables, most with laptops or notepads, as the barista works through the orders whilst chatting to man sat at the counter.

 

“Just turn up, jeez Steve I’m not asking a lot from you here.” The barista says over his shoulder to the man sat at the counter, who must be Steve. He’s tiny, feet perched on the middle rung of the chair, delicate hands fiddling with a pencil. Bucky can only see the back of him, short blond hair, pale blue button up with the sleeves rolled up to reveal lines of intricate tattoo work covering the expanse of skin. Focusing in on their conversation is a distraction, something to drown out the background noise.

 

“I don’t know Sam, I’m not really a blind date sorta guy.” Steve rubs a hand over the back of his neck. Uncomfortable. The line moves forward and the conversation stills for a moment so the order can be taken.

 

The barista is a tall man with a lean build and a warm smile and a nametag that says Sam. He’s wearing a black t-shirt beneath an orange apron. Briefly, Bucky thinks that orange is a bit of a strange colour for a coffee shop, even if it does look like the autumn leaves browning on the trees outside.

 

“You’ll be fine. The place you’re going serves great food, so even if the company is terrible at least you get a good meal out of it, not that the company will be terrible. Besides it’s not like you’re doing anything Friday night.”

 

“Fine I’ll go, just check in on Captain for me”

 

The person in front of Bucky pays, coins sliding across the counter, one hand wrapped around the take out cup and then they’re leaving. Shit. His fingers twist in hem of his coat, metal fingers curling in to hide beneath the sleeve. His throat feels like it’s going to close up any second, retreating back into decades worths of not speaking, mouth frozen shut by cryofreeze. He had told Natasha he couldn’t do it, he wasn’t ready, would never be ready.

 

The barista, Sam, throws a grin at the man sitting at the counter.

 

“That’s more like it Rogers, I’m liking the can do attitude.” He turns to Bucky, grin not wavering for a second even though Bucky knows he looks like a shifty homeless person. The lack of judgement is a comfort at least “Good morning Sir, what can I get you?”

 

Bucky blinks, opens his mouth to force the words out, hoping they come out comprehensible instead of a high pitched scream. Just do what he rehearsed over and over before leaving and again in his head during the walk.

 

“Uh.” Great way to start Barnes, just fantastic. He scans the board, picks out the first thing that jumps out. “I...I’ll have a pumpkin spiced latte. Regular.”

 

He prides himself on only stammering a little, no where near as bad as the way his heart is trying to hammer its way out of his chest. He expects relief, but instead Bucky feels like he’s going to throw up all over the counter top in any second.

 

“Good choice, I’ll get that sorted for you.” Sam busies himself with the machine, steam hissing as the liquid gurgles. Bucky fidgets, sparing a glance at Steve to zone in on one piece of information rather than absorbing all of it.

 

Steve is looking down at a sketchpad, beating a pencil against the paper, glasses slipping down his nose. There’s a tattoo creeping up the side of his neck from beneath the collar of his shirt, and everything about him looks delicate. The spike in interest surprises Bucky to say the least.

 

“Here you go” The cup is placed down on the counter, polystyrene with a band of cardboard covering the logo.

 

“Thanks” Bucky says, fishing the note out of his wallet and praying no one noticed the metal of his fingers that he keeps tucked out of sight below the counter, sliding the bills with his right hand before taking the cup. “Keep the change”

 

“Thanks man. Have a good day.”

 

Ducking his head, Bucky turns and makes a B-line for the exit, trying not to crush the cup he’s clutching. The relief washes over him for a split second as soon as the cold autumn air outside hits him. The disaster had not come. The taste of pumpkin sits lightly on his tongue.

 

*

 

The therapist is proud of him. Natasha is proud of him. Bucky isn’t proud of himself. It’s not an accomplishment, or so he tells himself, it had been a barely completed mission, one that was clumsy and almost compromised midway through. He should be able to act like a normal human being, it wasn’t an accomplishment, it was something he should be able to do without a second thought and it’s so pathetic that everyone feels the needs to pat him on the back and hand out a gold star because of it.

 

However, he doesn’t say as such to the therapist, who tells him to try and incorporate it into a routine. Get out of the apartment, breathe in the fresh air, be around people without having a meltdown or becoming so overcome with paranoia that he lashes out at some innocent bystander, (a cringeworthy event that occurred shortly after leaving the hospital. Luckily Natasha and Clint had intervened before all the shit hit the fan as it were.) Routine is something he can cope with, something he needs.

 

Besides, the four walls of the apartment are starting to remind him of the cryochamber and the sharp edges of cabin fever are starting to settle in. This will be the second time he’s left the house in two days which is both a miracle and a personal best.

 

Pushing through the doors of “ _Falcons_ ” coffeeshop, Bucky is met with a wave of warmth and greeted yet again by a mostly empty shop having missed the morning rush. Natasha had said to pick a place at random, but really they both knew that very few things were ever random for people like them. Bucky knew the exact distance and time it took to get here, had chosen it specifically because it lay within a five block radius of his apartment. Its position on the corner meaning it had plenty of window to watch for any threats, and it’s small, some might even say cosy, build meant that the room could be scanned and watched quickly, but it also meant that it wasn’t heaving with people or bustling with noise, reducing the chances of having a full blown information overload.

 

Like before, there were only a scattering of people inside, although this time there was no queue so Sam leant against the counter reading a book, same bright orange apron over a check shirt. Steve isn’t sitting at the counter this time, in fact, he is no where in sight.

 

“Hey man, you in for another pumpkin spiced latte?” Sam asks, having looked up when the tiny bell above the door dinged, dog earring the page of his book. It surprises Bucky that he had remembered, guard slipping for just a second.

 

“Yeah, it was pretty good the last time.” He instantly feels like an idiot for saying it, but at least he didn’t stutter so much this time. He still fidgets restlessly. He put it down to decades spent remaining still as a statue.

 

“Pretty good.” Sam huff's with good humour “It’s a fall favourite. I tell you, I have never bought so much pumpkin syrup in my life. I guess that’s what you get for beating Starbucks at their own game.”

 

Bucky smiles, small and tight and it doesn’t meet his eyes, but it’s a smile nonetheless. A lifetime ago, Bucky would have been able to small talk like a champ, witty and inviting and always knew what to say. Even as the Winter Soldier he could sweet talk and schmooze if the mission called for it. But that part of him had died falling from a train and now he’s left when a shell and a shallow grasp of what he may of been. He searches for something to say.

 

“I haven’t had coffee for a long time, and the last time it was swill so I’m not one to judge fairly.”

 

Sam laughs.

 

“Well nothing can beat a good cup of coffee, and you picked the right place if I do say so myself.”  The coffee is placed down in front of him, and Bucky nods. His gaze catches sight of a donation box on the counter near the cash register, something about helping war veterans. The weight of his left arm becomes particularly heavy.

 

Sam says goodbye, thanking Bucky again as he tells him to keep the change. He makes sure to put a few coins in the donation box before leaving.

 

*

 

The next day Bucky goes down, at exactly the same time, to order the exact same thing, but this time he doesn’t leave. It’s mainly because as soon as he steps through the door the heavens had opened in a torrential downpour, and in his haste to make sure he actually left the house after lingering by the front door for fifteen minutes, he had forgotten a raincoat.

 

“No, you’re staying put.” Sam said when Bucky made the order to go, glancing warily out the window at the sheets of rain.

 

“It’s just a little rain” He mumbled, trying to convince himself more than anything. Sam raised an eyebrow, looking at Bucky like he had gone completely insane.

 

“Right yeah, and I was an extra in Pulp Fiction. C’mon, just stay until the rain passes.” The concern is genuinely touching, even if it’s way more than he deserves, but Bucky sighs and shuffles into one of the seats at the counter, positioned at the edge so he can still see the room and the door.

 

“I’ve never seen Pulp Fiction” Bucky mutters, nursing the cup in one hand and angling his body to hide the left. The gloves and the sleeve of his sweater cover it, but it’s still a matter of self consciousness, the physical reminder of his secret.

 

Sam is still looking at him like he’s insane.

 

“Let me tell you my friend you have been missing out.” Sam washes down the countertop whilst shaking his head.

 

“Yeah, I guess I just fell behind and missed everything.” It comes out of nowhere, the self loathing sadness seeping into the tone.

 

Everyone keeps repeating it, it wasn’t his fault, but it still feels like it’s his fault. His fault for being chosen for experimentation, is fault for falling from the train, his fault for not fighting it as they wiped and reprogrammed until nothing was left. And now he’s stuck in a time so far from his own and the whole world has moved on without him, nothing remaining but blood and his photo in world war two documentaries.

 

Sam looks up and for a moment it feels like he can see straight through Bucky, like he can see the Winter Soldier sitting there with blood on his hands and a gun across his back, yet somehow his expression remains soft.

 

“Just say the word and I’ll lend you some favourites from the DVD cabinet.”

 

Bucky is about to open his mouth to say something when the tiny bell above the door dings. Looking round, Bucky sees the tiny tattoo man from the first time he came to _Falcons ,_ wearing a bright yellow waterproof mac and shaking droplets of water out of his hair.

 

“Hey Sam, how’s it going?”

 

“Good, Sharon told me to ask you if she could come over for a touch up later today?” Sam says, ducking into the backroom to grab a couple of wrapped up sandwiches.

 

“Of course, it won’t take more than ten minutes, tell her to come by around closing time.” Steve takes off his glasses to wipe off the fog gathering at the corners and Bucky can’t stop looking at him. His cheeks are flushed and his jeans are tight and the green check shirt isn’t helping matters at all. “Can I also get a green tea and an espresso?”

 

“Coming right up.” Sam rings up the items whilst Steve tries not to drip all over the floor, propping his elbows on the counter. He looks at Bucky and Bucky startles internally, feeling like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t. But Steve’s gaze is bright behind his glasses and he smiles at Bucky. It feels like the sun has just popped out of nowhere to slap him across the face.

 

“Hey”

 

Bucky flounders, utterly unprepared for this situation. His throat has closed. He tugs on the cuff of his left sleeve.

 

“Oh” Sam thankfully jumps in, “This is my friend Steve, he works in the tattoo place opposite. Steve this is…”

 

A space is left for Bucky to step in, a clear opening. Bucky swallows, testing his tongue against his teeth.

 

“Bucky” He says and thankfully it doesn’t sound strained. Steve grins, reaching out to shake his hand. Thankfully it’s the right hand, the flesh hand, meaning the left hand can remain a secret whilst he selfishly hordes the heat of Steve’s palm against his own.

 

“Nice to meet you. Glad to see Sam hasn’t driven you away with his tuneless singing.” Steve says, dropping his hand to run it through the damp strands of his hair. There’s a hearing aid in his left ear, a small black disc stretching the lobe on the right, a ring at the corner of his mouth and a bar straight through his left eyebrow. The tattoos spread from the side of his neck, down to both hands. It makes something warm and unidentifiable crawl through Bucky’s body, a feeling he hasn’t felt for decades.

 

“You’re just bitter because I owned karaoke night and you lost out on five dollars.” Sam snorts.

 

“Three people actually left during the Michael Jackson number.”

 

“They have no taste”

 

Steve chuckles , taking hold of the bagged sandwiches and the easy carry tray of drinks.

 

“Okay, if your ears can’t take anymore don’t be afraid to come shelter across the street.” Steve says smiling “It was nice to meet you Bucky.”

 

“You too”

 

“See you later Sam” Steve calls out as he leaves, tugging up the hood of his coat before disappearing into the rain. Bucky can see him dashing across the street, yellow raincoat the only blotch of colour amongst the grey.

 

Bucky blinks, taking a mouthful of coffee to break through the fuzziness gathering at pit of his stomach.

 

*

 

Natasha comes by that evening, carrying boxes of chinese take out under one arm, looking amazingly chipper for someone who has just come back from all the shit happening in Washington. It’s all classified of course, way above Bucky’s clearance (not that he actually has any clearance) but he can make a well educated guess, what with the exposure of Pierce and the complete collapse at one of the most influential fractions of government. It’s pretty obvious that a not so metaphorical shit storm has been gathering whilst Bucky has been disconnected from the world.  

 

“You showered” She beams at him, taking into account the damp strands starting to curl at the base of his neck and the faint smell of coconut.

 

“Don’t do that.” Bucky sighs, closing the door.

 

“Do what?”

 

“Act like its a big deal. Yeah, I showered, that’s what people should do.”

 

“You’re recovering James, you’re allowed to congratulate yourself on things that might seem small.”

 

Bucky snorts, waving a dismissive hand over one shoulder as he flops down onto the sofa, leaving Natasha to navigate the kitchen. Not that it’s difficult to navigate, the place is spotless, with everything sitting in it’s rightful place and nothing out of place. He may be shit at self care, but cleaning up everything else is a habit that has been ingrained since birth. Military upbringing requires military cleanliness.

 

“So” Bucky prompt as Natasha passes him a fork and the open carton, sitting with a thud. “How was DC? Still not allowed to tell me about it?”

 

“Sorry soldier, still way above your clearance. But I can tell you that it was cold and I have had enough of putting up with the bullshit the men in this justice system come up with.”

 

“I hope you wore a coat”

 

“Why? To guard from the cold or from the shit?”

 

Bucky shrugs one shoulder, answering around a mouthful of noodle “Both”.

 

“Don’t need a coat, I’m Russian.” Natasha said around her own mouthful, making Bucky laugh for the first time in what felt like an age.

 

Being around Natasha is easy. Their shared history provided a level of comfort and understand Bucky didn’t get from anyone else. They knew each other, knew what they had done, knew everything they would come to regret and yet Bucky still loves her, had done at the very beginning and would continue to until the very end.

 

“How have things been here? Good to see you didn’t die in that coffeeshop.”

 

“Well I’ve made going there part of the routine so there’s still a chance” The look Natasha throws him is a mixture of pleasant surprise and, dare he say, actually impressed. It’s one of those looks that he’d very much like to bergrud for being used in light of such simple news, but takes pride in despite himself. Bucky nods. “Yeah, y’know the shrink is always going on about getting fresh air, hearing the birds, meeting new people, that kind of thing. At least I get good coffee out of it.”

 

The thing is; Bucky is not a fan of the fresh air, can do without the birds and really has a problem with meeting new people. Sam, and his merry gang of coffee shop goers are a rare occurrence. Besides, he’s developed a taste for coffee after so many years without it. It feels good to actually like something of his own choosing.

 

“Look at you” Natasha coos, pinching his cheek. “You’re growing up”

 

Bucky bats her hand away, the plates of his metal arm clicking with movement beneath the long sleeve. She smiles at him. The TV chimes in with the recorded laughter of some sitcom neither of them knows the plot to. Bucky kicks his  feet up to rest in Natasha’s lap and finds he doesn’t mind the physical contact one bit.

 

*

 

Everything works like clockwork. Early rising after a restless sleep, lying spine against the mattress staring at the ceiling willing his legs to move. The time it takes to convince himself to actually get up and give up the futile attempt of sleep varies. It takes even further self conviction to eat something, shower and get dressed.

 

It feels strange, to have to persuade himself to do something. Before, when he was the Winter Soldier, Bucky had always done what he was told when he was told to do it, relying heavily on his handlers to provide him with protein bars and rations and canteens of water before hosing him down after missions. If he was fed too much he would vomit, if he was fed too quickly after coming out of cryofreeze he would vomit. Everything was strict and regulated.

 

Without the guidance of the handlers, or even by the doctors who had cared for him after being recovered by what was left of SHIELD, Bucky found it hard to decide when to do these simple self care tasks.

 

Yet no matter what, by the time 10am came around, it would find Bucky tying his shoes, checking his pockets a dozen times, taking four steps towards the door and forcing himself out of it. By 10:15am he was pushing through the doors of _Falcons_ to order the same thing.

 

“Hey Bucky, how you doing?” Sam always asks, already getting the order sorted before he’s taken his seat at the counter. Bucky shrugs.

 

“I’m okay. My pizza coupons came in the mail.” It’s Friday. Every Friday, at least one coupon for pizza comes in the mail, not that Bucky gets much mail. Today a coupon came through for a pizzeria four blocks over, the second one from that particular establishment that he’s received since moving in a month ago.  

 

“Let me guess, they come every Friday?”

 

“Yeah”

 

Sam nods, sliding the full mug over the counter. The cup is deep red with a small chip in the saucer it rests upon, and the specials board has changed, with an offer on cinnamon rolls and mulled cider written in yellow chalk. Bucky blinks, trying not to scan the room and take in every single piece of information available. He focuses instead on counting the number of blueberry muffins in the glass case near the serving counter.

 

“When did you get back?” Sam asks elbows resting opposite Bucky’s.

 

“Sorry?”

 

“You’re military right?”

 

Bucky’s heart beat picks up. Military isn't the word for it. There isn’t really a word to describe the whole, ‘missing in action world war two hero turned mind controlled soviet assassin turned struggling civilian’ thing.

 

“How did you guess?” He says instead. Sam smiles.

 

“I’ve volunteered down at the VA ever since I got back from tour, I know military guys when I see ‘em. I used to be in the air force but then my wingman, Riley, got killed in action during a rescue mission.”

 

Bucky chews his tongue, brow creasing. He’s vaguely aware that he should convey his condolences, a whisper from the very distant past helpfully conveying the proper protocol for situations like this.

 

“I’m sorry” He says, trying not to croak.

 

A few months ago, when the memories were seeping back into clarity, there used to be this recurring nightmare where Bucky would claw his way out of the icy mountain side that had been his grave for only a matter of hours, and slaughter all the other Howling Commandoes. He’d wake up sweating and crying for friends who had died so long ago through no fault of his own. Sometimes a memory from that time would resurface, though few and far between, and the grief for his friends would hit him like a roundhouse kick to the jaw.

 

Sam doesn’t say anything, just waits patiently, taking sips out of his own cup of tea. Bucky draws rings on the countertop with the fingers on his left hand strands of hair falling out of its tie and into his face.

 

“I was in hospital for five months” Initially it was because he had fallen from a helicarrier and almost drowned. After a month of tests it became apparent it would be unwise to release him any time soon. His mind was a hot bed of amnesia, PTSD, survivors guilt, and a complete lack of identity to name just a few. There were also a number of physical complications to his digestion system after the time spent in cryo. Although he hated the doctors, the hospital was the only safe place for him. “I got released a month ago with a handful of pills to take daily and instructions to see the shrink three times a week.”

 

“You like your shrink?”

 

Bucky shrugs.

 

“Not really.”

 

“You can always ask for a new one. That relationship is key”

 

Bucky shrugs, looking down at his gloved left hand.

 

“It’s boring isn’t it, not having that routine. Kinda feels like you’re a spare part.”

 

Bucky snorts, smile twitching the corners of his mouth.

 

“You can say that again. I like to clean things, it gives me something to do and takes my mind off things. But the only problem is I clean every up so much that there’s no actual mess for me to clean anymore.”

 

Sam laughs.

 

“Well if you’re ever bored, there always stuff that needs cleaning here.”

 

Bucky smiles properly at that.

 

“Yeah I might just hold ya to that.”

 

A hand very gently nudges against Bucky’s right hand. It startles him for a moment but he doesn’t move away, just selfishly hoards the comfort.

 

“You’re always welcome here Bucky.” Sam says, and Bucky wonders if the offer would still stand if his secret became known.

 

*

 

It’s pouring down with rain on Saturday as Bucky takes his usual walk down to the coffeeshop. Natasha had bugged him last night about taking her along, but a selfish part of him didn’t want her there, not yet anyway. It was too soon. He was still carving out a small space to fit himself inside, let alone anyone else. Besides, the feeling of disaster still loomed in the air and Bucky would be damned if he put Natasha in danger, as superficial as that danger may be.

 

Sloshing through the puddles, Bucky goes to push open the door of the coffee shop only to find it won’t move. The lock rattles under his left arm, a sign hanging on the door flipped over to read “ _Closed_ ”.

 

Closed. Fucking closed.

 

Bucky scowls, glancing down at the time on his phone. 10:20am, it should be open, the routine is falling apart because the door shouldn’t be locked and the building shouldn’t be empty. Running his hand through his hair in frustration, Bucky paces in from the closed door, unsure what the hell to do. His hair is getting soaked having knocked down the hood of his coat, the heavy rainfall running down his neck and down beneath his clothes. This isn’t right. It wasn’t supposed to go this way. What the fuck is he even supposed to do?

 

Shoes splash  through the puddles as people walk to and fro on the busy pavement, and Bucky is overly aware that he probably looks like an idiot struggling to keep the internal freak out from bubbling out into the exterior. Just like he’s overly aware of the yellow taxis’ and the green traffic lights, and the people crossing the road to swarm the pavement on his side of the street and shit shit shit. The information is flooding in. Glancing around, Bucky looks for an escape route, something to get him away from the people and the noise and the growing need to lash out.

 

This is it. This is the disaster that has been silently creeping up for nearly a week. He flinches when a car horn goes off, teeth grinding together and he can feel the electricity running through the sensitive plates of his arm. It’s clicking and recalibrating, plates sliding and interlocking in preparation of attack.

 

Boots wet through, hair plastered to his face, Bucky finally stops pacing, feeling dizzy as he leans back against closed glass doors. He’s either going to vomit or scream. Or vomit and scream. Maybe crush the bones of whoever is within arms reach. He’s forgotten what the mission protocol is in situations like this. To escape, disappear, report to the handler who will probably beat him black and blue for screwing up the mission before locking him in a claustrophobic transport vehicle.

 

“Bucky”

 

Bucky. The sound of his name, said in a tone of firm concern, snaps him back to reality. Looking sharply away from the puddle gathering around his boots, Bucky looks towards the voice, wide eyed like a deer caught in headlights, breathing a little too fast.

 

Steve is stood there, a full head and shoulders shorter, forehead creased with concern as his eyes search Bucky’s face. Oh, and the rain has stopped, pattering against the nylon of Steve’s umbrella held over their heads. His other hand is open, palm held upwards. Focusing on the lines of Steve’s neck tattoo drowns out the other information flying around, dulling it to just the information of the sharp jut of Steve’s Adam’s apple, the subtle crook in his nose from where it’s been broken and poorly reset.

 

“Bucky” Steve says again, gentler this time, “Do you want to come inside?”

 

Bucky blinks, aware of how cold and how wet he is. He nods.

 

“It’s just across the street, is that okay?” It feels strange to be asked. Bucky still isn’t used to being asked about how he feels, the only times he was asked in the past was during doctors examinations and occasionally by his handlers as a test. Right now he’s feeling lost, confused and, quite frankly, miserable. He lets Steve guide him across the street to a small tattoo parlor that is currently empty.

 

Bucky gets a brief look at the wood flooring, artworking hanging up on blue walls, two separate areas for tattooing on opposite sides of the room. But it passes by in a blur as he’s guided through a door at the back, past a tiny bathroom and into the back room, where two armchairs have been set up next to a large table covered in paper and drawing materials. The armchair is soft beneath his weight, cushion swallowing him up. Steve stays put, perching on the edge of the table and shoving pens out the way.

 

The beating of Bucky’s heart has slowed, his brain no longer feels like it’s going to pour out of his ears. But his limbs are heavy with tiredness and he feels lost, but most of all soaked through. The shiver must give away his discomfort, that or the fact that he’s currently bearing close resemblance to a drowned rat, because Steve finally stops staring, glancing at the door.

 

“I’m just going upstairs to find a towel and something that might fit you. Is that okay?”

 

“You don’t have to, I’m fine” Bucky says without much fight, too tired to fully protest. Steve raises one eyebrow

 

“You’re wet through, I’m not going to leave you to get ill from the cold. I’ll be right back” Steve hurries off through a second door. A bubble of amusement catches in Bucky’ throat. If only Steve knew, the cold wasn’t any bother and the threat of illness had died in 1945. But it’s the thought that counts.

 

The floorboards on the floor above creak under Steve’s movement and Bucky sinks back further into the chair, looking down at the sketches and tattoo designs spread out on the table. There are two very distinct styles, a mix of delicate portraits and bold graphic lines. The back room is small and slightly cluttered, the exact opposite to the open space out front, but it’s cosy and despite the enclosed space it feels safe. Bucky sighs, shaking out his hair. The door opens and closes again and Steve comes back, arms piled with a towel, a blanket and some clothes.

 

“Obviously you’re a lot bigger than me, but I tried to find something.” He places the bundle down on the table, moving aside the drawings on waxy paper. Bucky picks up the towel to dry his hair, glancing down at his left arm and then back up at Steve, who thankfully gets the point and moves into one of the other rooms to give him some privacy.

 

Peeling off the soden coat and sweater, he finds his t-shirt isn’t as wet as he thought it was, but the damp fabric is still clinging uncomfortably to his torso and his jeans are sticking to his legs. The sweater Steve has given him is made of thick red wool, and is a little too small and tight over his muscle and he worries about the thread catching in the plates of his arm. The  grey sweats are no hope, being unable to get them over his thighs, so he opts to stay in his boxers, with the blanket wrapped around his waist and his hair coiled in the towel.

 

When Steve comes back in fifteen minutes later with a steaming mug in hand, Bucky doesn't miss the way his eyes quickly flick down to the blanket knotted at the hip, or the way a faint pink dusts his cheeks.  Of course he doesn't miss it, he is after all the Winter Soldier.

 

“I, uh, didn’t know how you take it so I just left it. If you want milk or anything just say. Oh and sorry about the mess .” Steve says, pushing up his glasses before waving a hand at table, passing Bucky is mug of black coffee.

 

“Thanks, this is fine.” Bucky says and hopes he doesn’t come off too abrupt, it’s just, when he thinks of something to say he has to say it otherwise he’ll over think the words and never say anything. “These drawings are real good, they yours?”

 

Of course they’re his, for fuck’s sake Barnes. Bucky somehow manages not to cringe at his own attempt at conversation. Steve is unfazed, in fact, he smiles, rubbing the back of his neck in response to the complement.

 

“Thanks. Yeah the ones of this side of the table are mine” Steve says, grabbing a handful of sketches of mugs and the portrait tattoo designs Bucky had been looking at earlier. “And across the table are Peggy’s sketches. She specialises in colour tattoos whereas I mainly do the black and whites.”

 

Buky nods, busying his mouth with taking in gulps of coffee. Steve checks the time, grabbing hold of one of the drawings and the reference picture to finish the design meant for his first client of the day. He pouts with concentration, the full swell of his bottom lip jutting out, the black bud of a lip piercing catching in the light. Bucky focuses on him, the background noise turning into that familiar white static as he absorbs every detail, from the locks of blond hair falling over his forehead, to the way his wrists could so easily be broken. Everything about Steve could so easily be broken.

 

“Sam volunteers at the VA on a Saturday morning, that’s why the shop wasn’t open. He’ll be in later to open it up around lunch time. He didn’t mean to forget to tell you” Steve says, thankfully not looking at Bucky who ducks his head.

 

“Yeah” He picks at the blanket with the fingers of his left hand subconsciously. “I shouldn’t’ve freaked out like that”

 

This time Steve does look up, eyes catching sight of the metal fingers twitching with discomfort. For a moment it looks like he wants to ask and Bucky watches him, throat sitting on the tip of his tongue, silently pleading for the question to remain silent. He has to tell himself over and over that there is no danger here, that one small tattoo artist isn’t going to recognize the Winter Soldier.

 

Thankfully Steve looks up to meet Bucky’s gaze. No judgement lies there.

 

“It’s okay, you’re allowed to do that.” That is a strange concept, to be allowed to do something. To be allowed to feel whatever he wants. His mind has always been a hive of feeling immersed with information, even if the handlers prefer to believe he was a blank canvas. Bucky swallows, looking anywhere that isn’t Steve. He still feels raw and tired, and suddenly words are sitting like pebbles in his mouth that he has to let tumble out before they break his jaw.

 

“I just...I used to be so good. If something didn’t go right, I adjusted, I could just pick the information supplied in the moment and use it within a split second. And now, now if something doesn’t go right I get thrown off balance. Everything just gets so loud and I have no idea what to do with myself.” Bucky barks out a laugh that is dripping with bitterness, running his left hand through his hair and gripping tight. There’s a rustle of paper, the light sound of a pen being put aside.

 

“Hey” Steve says gently. He stays out of Bucky’s personal space but tilts his head so Bucky at least has to look at him. Look at those big baby blues that are so much more than Bucky deserves. “Its okay.”

 

And that was it. Just a firm ‘it’s okay’. No long winded speech about becoming a new man like the shrink tended to give. No trying to justify or explain. Just ‘it’s okay’. And maybe it was okay, maybe this is thing is okay. He gives Steve a nod, chewing lightly on his bottom lip as the two words repeat over and over again in his head. Steve’s smile is small as he turns back to his work, not as a close to the conversation, more a pause that can be broken at anytime.

 

*

 

Bucky watches from the doorway as Steve works, tattooing a portrait of a woman on the client’s thigh and chatting to the person in the chair. It’s 11:10am. The rain has cleared, making way for dull sunlight to sparkle in the water dripping from the guttering and gargling down drain pipes. Despite feeling a little damp and completely stretched out into a thin wafer of a man, Bucky feels oddly content, allowing all the information to fade into a quiet buzz as he watches the needle work into human skin, Steve’s thin fingers poised artfully as he applies the lines. The whole thing will take a few hours, but the amount of care and precision that goes into it is worth the patience.

 

The conversation has stilled to a comfortable silence. So comfortable in fact, that Bucky doesn’t mentally kick himself until after he says, “How did your date go Steve?”

 

Steve pauses, lifting the needle away and looking at Bucky with a small frown, and that’s when he realises that Steve never actually told him about it, he had just overheard and stored it when in the coffee shop the first time. Cringing, Bucky puts a hand up, waving it around in a useless action.

 

“What I mean is, I heard you talking to Sam about it on Monday and I was wondering how it went?” Bucky hopes that at least dials down the stalker vibes a few notches. Steve pushes his glasses up with his forearm, ducking his head to continue his work.

 

“Oh y’know, it was alright.” Steve chews on his lip in thought, only half committed to actually giving an accurate account. It obviously wasn’t that interesting then. People tend to jump at the chance to talk about the things they find interesting. “To give him credit, he was nice. I don’t know, he was just….just”

 

“Boring?” The person in the chair helpfully suggests. Steve tilts his head in a small bobbing motion.

 

“Yeah, really dull actually. He was nice though.”

 

The person in the chair says something about not settling for the first guy who is nice, and Bucky disregards the strange lightness gathering at the corners of his ribcage.

 

“Sharon and Sam are gonna go mental, this is the fourth date they’ve set me up on that I’ve blown off” Steve laughs.

 

The door to the shop opens, allowing the sound of traffic and tires rolling through water to burst into the room for a brief moment. A tall woman with thick brunette hair falling in waves around her face comes through the door, wrangling down an umbrella, the heel of her shoes clacking against the floor.

 

“Hey Peggy, you’re just in time to hear about the disaster that is my dating life.” Steve says, leaning back to look over his shoulder. Peggy sighs, peeling off her coat as a smile spreads across her perfectly painted red lips. There are colourful tattoos visible on her arm and across her collarbones.

 

“Please tell me you didn’t somehow manage to go on another awful date between when you saw me last night and now.”

 

“No, I’m just retelling the uneventful story” Steve gestures towards Bucky sitting in the doorway. “Peggy this is Bucky, Bucky this is my friend Peggy”

 

Peggy looks from Steve towards Bucky. She’s beautiful, Bucky thinks that if this was still the 40’s he would ask her to dance, but this isn’t the 40s and he’s far from the man he used to be, so instead he tenses up and tries not the let it show. Peggy walks across the floor in a way that demands attention, which is the way she walks just about everywhere, and shakes Bucky’s hand. Without realising it, Bucky hides the left hand in the fabric of the blanket.

 

“Nice to meet you Bucky.” She smiles, letting go after a few seconds and Bucky can’t find the words to speak, “You’re Sam’s friend right? Steve did say something about a cute guy drinking pumpkin lattes.”

 

It receives a wounded noise from further in the shop. Bucky’s eyes widen, looking towards Steve who is engrossed in the tattoo even if his face has gone a delightful shade of red. Peggy looks triumphant in the way friends always do when they’ve fully embarrassed the other. It’s definitely something Natasha would do, and that thought makes Bucky’s tension ease a little, even if the comment has broken through the strong exterior guards. What the hell would the quick talking, charming war hero say? He has no idea.

 

“What can I say, I like good coffee.” Bucky shrugs. That at least is true. Reigniting a love for coffee is a comfort at least, he can remember loving coffee before, and it’s like rediscovering a missing piece of a jigsaw puzzle that had been lost for so long. Yet there are still many jigsaw pieces that remain unfound.

 

“No wonder Sam likes you.” She walks past him, grabbing designs from the table. “Speaking of coffee, Steve do you mind if I got upstairs to make some?”

 

“Go ahead, the keys are under the mat.”

 

“Way ahead of you.” She says, wiggling the loop of keys on her index finger.

 

Peggy disappears through a second door, leaving behind the buzz of the needle and a comfortable silence. Sitting there, Bucky is reminded of just how drained he feels, having slept poorly, and the panic filled morning did nothing to rejuvenate his energy. He yawns, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand.

 

“You can go home if you want, this morning was pretty draining on you.” Steve says and the thought of his own bed is welcoming.

 

“I didn’t get much sleep last night.” Bucky says absentmindedly, looking towards the clothes left to dry on the radiator.

 

“You can keep the sweater if you want, not much I can do about the pants though.”

 

That actually pulls a laugh from Bucky, sudden, and it still feels raw to laugh. There’s something so human about laughing that people often take for granted. Going into the back room, Bucky unwraps the blanket, folding it up and leaving it on the chair before pulling on the still damp jeans that are itchy and cold. He put the rest of his clothes in a plastic bag, shrugging on a coat over Steve’s sweater. It rides up to show a band of his belly over the waistband.

 

“Thank you, for everything.” Bucky says, rubbing a hand over his hair. Steve looks up, eyes pausing on the slip of skin beneath sweater before tearing his eyes away.

 

“It’s fine. If you ever need my help, you know where to find me.”

 

Help. It’s tough to admit he needs it, help from SHIELD, from Natasha, from these people who don’t even know anything. If there’s anything Bucky is always amazed about, it’s how willing people can be to give it.

 

*

 

Sometimes memories resurface so vivid, so sudden and always at the unexpected moments. He dimly aware that his phone is ringing in the living room, can hear the tone above the shrill white noise and the shower water that seems to be roaring in his ears, hammering into his skin as he sits down, knees drawn up.

 

There had been a woman, in 1973, in a thin white nightgown, staring up at the ceiling as blood boils out her throat and all over the floor. The balcony doors had been left open, curtains twirling softly in the breeze, the sea swish against the sand somewhere in the distance. There had been been a man, little more than a teenager, in 1999 who he had tortured, broken bones and pulp beneath his hands. The memories came in loud fragments, shattered piece of glasses pushing out of his muscle.  So much blood. So much blood.

 

He shivered despite the hot water, staring not at the shower door, but at somewhere forgotten during the years.

 

Dimly a part of him knows this means he’s overdue for reset. That he should report to the handlers for an appointment with the chair. But there will never been a reset ever again, just the continuous rediscovery of memories, be they the dimly lit memories of Brooklyn in the 30’s, or the bright technicolour adventures of the Winter Soldier.  

 

He’s not sure how long he’s been sat there for, but suddenly the door is opening and Natasha’s face swimming up through the shower spray, a concerned expression on her face. It’s then that he realises she’s been shouting his name, James, James, not Bucky but James. The shower plasters her hair to her face, clothes getting soaked as she tries to get him to focus, but he can’t hear anything, can barely register the touch of fingers against his shoulder. Seeing her makes him think back to trying to kill her on the causeway, to shooting her in the stomach in order to kill a target. It’s awful, so awful.

 

“Natalia” He sobs, folding inwards.

 

Natasha manages to pull him out the shower, just like she pulled him out the water after falling out the helicarrier over six months ago. She doesn’t bother turning it off, just pulls Bucky’s limb body against her own, head cushioned against her shoulder . She just lets him heave ugly sobs and holds him in a secure grip, even if he ends up dripping all over her.

 

Bucky didn’t realise that he kept saying how sorry he was until Natasha hushed him, a hand petting his hair, repeating over and over again ‘it wasn’t your fault.’

 

“Do you want to talk about it?” Natasha asks later, when Bucky had managed to let go long enough to get a towel wrapped around his shoulders. Now he just sits sniffling as Natasha dries his hair, cross legged and hunched in, trying to become small. He cradles her hand against his chest.

 

He shakes his head, too exhausted for words.

 

Natasha understand, she has more than her fair share of ghosts, she knows about all the blood. Bucky doesn’t trust anyone but Natasha.

 

“Do you think you can stand?” As much as Bucky would prefer to just crawl into bed, climbing to his feet seems like the better option. At least Natasha doesn’t let go of him, otherwise he might just crumple to the floor again.

 

Managing to just about pull on a pair of boxers before wriggling under the duvet, cocooning inside the covers, Bucky watches as Natasha turns the shower off and put a few towels down on the bathroom floor to soak up the Bucky sized puddle. Something sad uncurls in the pit of his stomach. Bucky can see her tiredness when Natasha thinks he’s not looking, can see the lines across the surface where the world has torn her into piece and put her back together, just like they did to him, just like they continue to do to so many others.

 

“Natalia” He croaks, a hand stretching towards her, “Don’t leave.”

 

There’s a pause. Bucky won’t be able to stand it if she goes, he needs her, not to stop the bombardment of images, but to soothe him when they come.

 

“I’ll have to borrow a t-shirt.” Natasha says, gesturing towards her soaked tank top.

 

“Second draw”

 

Natasha moves around the bed, feet silent against the floor. They both walk that way, a way to minimize sound when hunting, it’s one of the many traits they share. They are not two sides of the same coin, but two near identical of a coin, separate, they amounting to the same value, the same design . The draws tucked neatly inside the chest slide open and shut, one of the perfectly folded t-shirts being taken out. The wet clothes are hung up in the bathroom to dry.

 

They lie together, chest pressed against back, one arm slung carefully over the soft curve at the waist. Bucky tucks his face against the back of Natasha’s neck, knees slotting together perfectly. They always had worked perfectly, as partners, or as the last shred of humanity the two of them shared in the Red Room.

 

That was before, and now Bucky is surrounded by humanity all the time, just has trouble absorbing it. There is humanity in the SHIELD agents who help him. There is humanity in Sam and in Steve living their ordinary lives only partially away from the horror (all human beings have an element of horror in their lives, it is inescapable, it would be foolish to think that some escape it just because they don’t have blood on their hands.)

 

He thinks of Natasha pulling him out the water before he drowned, thinks of her pulling him out of the shower just moments ago, thinks about Steve pulling him out of the rain that morning. Humanity. Natasha is still awake, Bucky can tell by her breathing, so instead of keeping the words that sit heastiant at the tip of his tongue, he vocalises them.

 

“A guy called me cute today.” It  feels almost childlike, like they are two children telling secrets in the dark. It’s fitting, seeing as both their childhoods were cut short.

 

“Not surprising, although cute isn’t the word I’d use to describe your mug.”

 

Bucky sighs out a laugh against her neck, glad that she can still tease him despite everything.

 

“Well, his friend told me after he introduced us. It was kinda like something you would do to me.”

 

“Me? Do that to you? I would never James.” It’s sarcastic, Bucky prods Natasha’s rib in response. “What about you? Do you think he’s cute?”

 

That is something that, admittedly, Bucky has  really considered. He’s intrigued by Steve, feels comfortable around him, it’s easy to like him. It’s is good enough. To go from not even knowing that friends existed, to having one very close friend and several half friends in six months is progress enough. Yet he thinks of Steve, with his wonderful artwork, his yellow raincoat, his blue eyes, and sighs.

 

“Yeah I guess, he’s...he’s”  Bucky searches for the words to say, before finishing rather lamely, “He’s a friend.”

 

Natasha hums and Bucky can tell she wants to make a smart ass remark, the kind that will tease him yet convey a feeling of pride so he doesn’t moan at her. But the remark doesn’t come.

 

“That’s good, you deserve friends James.” Bucky drops his eyes to look at the collar of his t-shirt swamping Natasha’s frame, the strong curve of her neck, her damp hair. She wishes him good night

 

“Yeah” Bucky replies, “Good night Natalia.”

 

He stays awake for a few more hours, listening to the steady intake of breath, before he too falls asleep. Bucky at least hopes that Natasha will have good dreams, even if he does not.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

“Relax, I’m going to clean it up.” Natasha reassures when Bucky wakes up to find his kitchen in disarray, instantly setting his teeth on edge.

 

It’s 12am and he’s completely out of routine, having fallen into a deep sleep five hours ago, exhausted from the days events and feeling somewhat safer with Natasha’s steady presence at his side. It’s good to see she is still here, even if she has destroyed the precise order of his kitchen with utensils and batter scattered on the worktops.   

 

“What are you making?” Bucky sighs, resisting the urge to tidy as he sits at the breakfast bar, tying up the mess of his hair.  

 

“Our favourite” Natasha grins over her shoulder, frying batter in a pan, “Oladushki. I even popped out to get kefir.”

 

Bucky smiles tightly, picking at a bowl of berries on the countertop. Admittedly most of his life spent in Russia had been limited to rations; when Natasha had burst into his life as the Winter Soldier, she had treated him to snippets of Russian cuisine when they ventured beyond the compound on missions. Now Russian food mainly comes from the specialist supermarket across the street.

 

“Eat up” Natasha says, pushing the plate of food and a handful of pills across the surface. Portion sizes are still strictly regulated after the damage the cryofreeze did to his body, with nutrition supplements and a list of medication as long as his arm.

 

“Thanks.” He says, swallowing the pills around a mouthful of water before digging into pancakes.

 

“So, what are you thinking of doing today?”

 

Bucky makes a non-committed gesture, waving his hand from side to side and screwing his face up around a mouthful. Going beyond the walls of the apartment felt like wading into the ocean in stormy weather, with no lifeboats or anything to grab hold of. The apartment is safe today, far beyond the noise and commotion of the city outside.

 

“Y’know, you should come over to the tower sometime. I know the doctors said to minimize situations where you feel threatened, but I think you could do with some sparring practise.”

 

Bucky swallows the last of the oladushki, silently lamenting about not being able to eat more unless he wants to spend the morning with his head in the toilet, taking the last of the pills that require a full stomach.

 

“I don’t know, Widow, I’d hate to kick your ass in front of everyone you work with.”

 

“You couldn’t even do that in your dreams Barnes.” Natasha snorts, ruffling Bucky’s hair, making the strands fall out of the tie. “I’m going to be working this week so I’ll send Barton over to check up on you.”

 

“You don’t have to do that, I don’t need babysitting.”

 

“Who said Barton is babysitting you? If anyone needs babysitting it’s Clint.”

 

“I’m sure he’ll appreciate that.”

 

“Anything to keep my boys entertained.” Natasha grabs her bag from where she dropped it in front of the door the night before, leaning over to kiss Bucky’s cheek. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

 

“Try not to burn too many men in DC.”

 

“I make no such promise.”

 

Bucky smiles after her as she goes, even if a small ball of guilt rolls down to the pit of his stomach. Although no one is talking about it, and the press has mostly moved on to other things, Bucky knows that the courts are still tackling all the issues surrounding SHIELD’s collapse, surrounding the fact that the Winter Soldier isn’t just a straight up traitor, and whether or not he should be held accountable for his crimes. It’s all one big mess that Bucky has been assessed “not fit” to take part in.

 

Swallowing the ball of guilt down, he turns his attention to the mess in the kitchen, busying himself in scrubbing and drying, hands covered in soapy suds. He washes the pan and the bowl of batter and the plates, wipes down the counters and puts everything back in its place. There’s an itch brewing to clean the floor, an itch that inevitably spills over to the entire apartment being cleaned.

 

Two hours later he’s finally managed to clean the bathroom. Having initially been reluctant to enter the room where everything came crumbling down the previous night, Bucky forced himself through the door, likening it to ripping off a plaster. Heart sitting in his mouth, hooked around his teeth to stop it from falling onto the floor, Bucky picks up the damp towels, dries the floor, sorts out the inside of the shower from where he had knocked over all the bottles in a fit of violence, shampoo and body wash gel forming a thick gooey puddle in the shower pan.  He really can’t afford to have a fear of going into his own bathroom. Man the fuck up Barnes.

 

Natasha had put on a spin cycle whilst he had been asleep, leaving one last job to do before falling into boredom. As he hangs up the clothes on the airer to dry,  Bucky finds Steve’s jumper balled up in his fist, the red wool damp between his fingers. Despite only being yesterday he had forgotten all about borrowing the item of clothing, that is too small and too tight. It’s evident, by the shape of the thing, that Bucky’s wider frame has stretched the fabric, a realisation that has the swallowed down guilt rising all over again. Steve had to know the stretch would happen, it’s inevitable when someone so small leads clothes to someone so big.

 

Nevertheless, he pegs it to the rungs of the airer, circling around the kitchen into the living room. There’s a book of recent history he’s busy trying to catch up with, having only vague memories of world events over the years lost. Sometimes it’s difficult, he’ll read something and know straight away that his hand had played a part in it, instantly triggering a haze of memories and Pierce’s voice gently saying he’s a ‘gift to mankind’. A gift. Bucky couldn’t be any further from a gift.

 

Bucky wonders what Sam and Steve would do if they read their history books and realised the real culprit had spoken to them, had touched their fingers in fleeting actions. The rejection makes itself prominent even if nothing has happened.     

 

He manages to only half read three chapters before caving in, restlessly throwing the book aside as he leaps over the back of the couch towards the bedroom in a burst of spontaneous action. It has to be done now, in the spur of the moment, before he can think too much about it and not go anywhere.

 

Pulling on a jacket over his t-shirt, and boots laced over his sweats, Bucky grabs the sweater off the airier and bangs out of the apartment, door slamming, locks sliding into place. The people in the foyer look oddly at the man charging through the reception with messed up hair, a sweater balled up in his hands, worrying the thread between his fingers.  He doesn’t realise exactly what he’s doing until he’s back in front of Steve’s tattoo shop, pushing through the door with one shoulder without really looking to see who is inside. For once, everything is passing by in a blur of ignorance, mind so dead set on getting to Steve that everything falls into effective tunnel vision. There is a mission, everything else is irrelevant.

 

Peggy is inside, tidying up a set of needles and peeling off latex gloves. She smiles at Bucky who finally stops, looking around as if he’s unsure where he is. How long did that take? Five minutes? Had he really been walking that fast?  Or running...oh God he had just ran through the streets of New York like a mad man.

 

“I’m just closing Bucky, what’s up?” Peggy thankful interrupts the train of thought that is starting to verge into wondering how many people he may have knocked over during the moment of insanity. Really there had been no reason to run like that, not for something to simple, something so stupid.

 

“Uh, is Steve around?” Bucky shuffles from one foot to the other, suddenly unable to remain still. Peggy points up at the ceiling.

 

“Upstairs. Go through the back room, there’s some stairs just past the workroom. Make sure you knock.” The reminder seems necessary; the mood he’s in right now would probably send him crashing through the door without knocking or even opening it.

 

“Thanks.” Bucky breathes out, ignoring the look Peggy gives him, mainly because it’s an expression he doesn’t care to read right now, and following the directions. The stairs are steeply stacked in a narrow space at the end of the building, with a small landing jutting out at the top in front of a chipped off white door. Heeding Peggy’s instructions, Bucky pauses to knock.

 

Straight away a dog starts barking, the heavy thud of paws against the floor behind the front door. Bucky startles, almost falling down the stairs as he takes a step back, which sends his heart surging into his throat. He grips the sweater so tightly that his fingers almost punch a hole through it. Steve’s voice calls from behind the door and the barking stops, footsteps across the floorboards, the lock and door handle turning.

 

Steve stands in the threshold, hair falling in front of his eyes, bundled up in paint smeared trousers and long sleeved t-shirt, with the collar gaping to show ink stained skin and the press of sharp collarbones. He looks surprised to see Bucky, before the surprise splits to make way for a grin.

 

“Well, you’re definitely not Peggy.”

 

It startles a laugh out of Bucky, an octave too high, a little on edge, just to fit the strange mood he’s in.

 

“No I’m not, sorry to disappoint.”

 

“Nonsense. Bucky this is my dog Captain, Captain this is Bucky.” It’s now that Bucky realises that Steve has his fingers curled loosely in the silky fur of a golden retriever. To be honest, when Bucky thought of Steve owning a dog, he definitely thought it’d be something smaller. Not this wonderfully well groomed, bright eyed dog with an open mouth and tongue lolling out.

 

“Oh” Bucky says, unsure what the hell to do with a dog. He briefly remembers the guards in the 80’s having big dogs, with gnashing teeth that would snap at him from time to time, nothing like the animal sat obediently next to Steve’s leg.

 

“You can say hello if you want.” Steve prompts, and he’s grinning like he’s trying to stifle a laugh.

 

“Are you laughing at my inability to handle your dog?” Bucky raises an eyebrow, crouching down to pet the dog. His right hand strokes between the dog’s ears and Captain’s tail thumps against the floor in appreciation. Bucky finds himself smiling.

 

“That obvious huh?”

 

“Your poker face is not the best.” Bucky glances up at Steve. He doesn’t miss the way his eyes flick down to his lips, and then he reconsiders his position crouched in front of Steve’s leg. Teeth worrying gently at his lower lip, an involuntary flush spreads in the pit of his stomach,  prickling lightly at his cheeks as he decides the best course of action is to stand.

 

“C’mon in.” Steve says, overlooking the action, “Unless all you wanted to do is check out my landing.”

 

There’s a double meaning clinging around the edges of the words, one that has Bucky freezing in the doorway. It occurs to him then just how easy the entire conversation had been, the words had just come, and Bucky wonders if this is what he had once been like long ago. He looks down at the sweater.

 

“Actually, I just came to return this. Sorry it’s all stretched outta shape.” The sweater is held out at arms length. A fleeting expression of disappointment flickers across Steve’s face.

 

“Oh thanks.” He says, taking the sweater in hand, their flesh and bone fingers brushing for a second, “It was already too big anyway, a little stretching won’t matter.”

 

Captain, having decided that his owner is not in danger, pads off further into the apartment. Bucky notices the vibrantly coloured walls, the smell of fresh cooked pasta and music he doesn’t recognise playing quietly behind the walls. For a moment, Bucky longs to step across the threshold and explore, natural curiosity pulling at the edges. But the need to return home is persistent.

 

“Can I take a rain check?” Rain check, that’s something people do now right? He’s pretty sure he saw it in a movie once. Judging by the way Steve’s expression lifts, it probably is.

 

“Sure, you can swing by anytime.”  

 

“Alright. I guess I’ll see you around then.”

 

“I sure hope so.” The looks Steve gives him reminds Bucky of the look he used to give girls in dance halls. He curses himself for feeling like a teenager as he walks back down the stairs.  

 

*

Monday is spent watching bad daytime telly between reliving fragments of past brutality in the form of flashbacks. Sometimes the flashbacks aren’t as violent as they were a few days ago when he had lashed out, overcome with the ghost of actions past. Sometimes it’s like he’s a passenger in his own body, watching the events unfold in sharp, out of sync snippets, paralysed of all movement. His head burns as the memories rip through the blanket the memory wiping tech laid over them. No memory had ever been truly wiped from his brain, just pushed further down and locked up, only to resurface when triggered, like stones loaded into a catapult waiting to be launched.

 

Bucky flinches at every tiny noises, shuts out the daylight that is flooding through the windows and arranges the kitchen knives within easy reach in front of him on the kitchen floor where he is sat against the corner cabinets. The door is always in eyeshot.

 

Needless to say he doesn’t sleep, so when the sunrise of Tuesday comes creeping up, he’s in need of coffee. The knock off serum flowing through his veins reduces the hours he needs to sleep, but that doesn’t make him invincible, and being bombarded with seventy years worth of abuse tends to take it out of him.

 

Sam notices something is up as soon as Bucky walks through the door, early, right in the middle of the morning rush and that’s just fantastic. Bucky tenses up as people crowd into the tiny shop, a huge queue in front, more and more people gathering behind. He screws his eyes up, hoping the noise will stop drilling through his head. Sometimes the worst noise isn’t the loud bangs or the rush of car, but the buzz of human chatter because it never seems to stop.

 

“Bucky, come over here.” Sam calls out, beckoning Bucky over to his usual corner that is surprisingly empty, tucked away in the back. The people in the line give him a dirty look at he skips past them, and if someone says anything Bucky is going to flip out and deck them. Thankfully it seems, for all passive aggressive actions, no one has the guts to speak.

 

“You’re a little early.” Sam says not unkindly, making coffee at an impressive speed.

 

“Sorry” Bucky mumbles, flinching when a man at another table laughs a little too loudly. He feels like a deflated balloon, sagging in the chair as the air wheezes out of him. Sam stops, digging around the front pocket of his apron to pull out his iPod.

 

“Here” He unwinds the earphones and passes them into Bucky’s hand, being careful not to touch him, “Chose anything you want, it’ll help with the noise.”

 

Not bothering to scroll through the hoard of artists and songs loaded onto the device, Bucky hits the play button on the last song played. The track is made up of slow beats with bluesy lyrics over the top that works into Bucky’s bones. The noise of the coffee shop fades out, not erased but muffled as the music takes over. Bucky rests his head in his right hand, closing his eyes as Sam works through the orders. He’s not relaxed, but he works hard on focusing on the way the tracks change from one to another, too tired to keep the tension in his limbs for too long.

 

He’s midway through an upbeat song when a cup of coffee appears at his left elbow. Bucky blinks his hooded eyes open, stifling a yawn as he pulls one of the earbuds out, noticing straight away that the shop is almost empty again apart from the few daytime regulars. Sam is collecting a few mugs from the now empty tables. Bucky starts fishing for his wallet but is stopped by a gentle hand on his shoulder.

 

“This one’s on me pal.” Bucky is too tired to protest, sagging under Sam’s hand. “Rough night?”

 

Bucky snorts. Rough night; more like rough six months, more like rough seventy-five years. People at SHIELD know the time between now and when he fell from a train have been traumatic, by they often forget that the trauma started earlier, as a soldier fighting in a war. Maybe it’s because it’s always easier to blame the Russians for creating the Winter Soldier, than it is to blame the United States, land of the free, for forcing him onto the frontline in the first place.

 

“I used to be special ops.” Bucky blurts out, jamming the heel of his left hand into his eye. “Me and a group of guys did things that normal soldiers weren’t allowed to, and I mean some nasty stuff. Stuff that had us lying in the snow for hours just waiting for the right truck to roll by so we could blow it up.” He doesn’t mention Nazis, doesn’t mention Hydra, tries not to give too much away. The Howling Commandos are school textbook heroes, no one needs to know that the only member of the team who gave his life to the war is actually still very much alive.

 

Bucky sighs around the rim of the mug, drinking a mouthful of coffee. Sam waits patiently, making sure not to focus too much on Bucky as he talks.

 

“My Pa was a soldier and me and my sister grew up on the base. What do you guys call it? A military brat? Whatever it is, I was one of those. I’ve spent my entire life around soldiers, and now I’m not. How can I be a civvy when I was never really a civvy to begin with?”

 

“During the transition back to civilian life, one of the first things to accepted is you might never be ‘fully a civvy’ ever again. We see and experience things civilians do not and we continue to carry that with us even when we’ve left, you just need to learn how to carry it.” Sam leans against the counter, jotting something down on a napkin. “When you’re ready, you should stop by the VA sometime. You get to pick out what kinda bag you want to carry your stuff in.”

 

Bucky doesn’t have enough energy to smile, folding the napkin neatly and tucking it inside his jacket pocket.  

 

“Thanks, talking to someone outside of SHIELD might actually help.” The words are out before Bucky can grab hold of them again, the tiredness making his brain to mouth filter crumble.  Everyone knows about SHIELD after Natasha dumped all the secrets onto the internet, it’s been the headlines for months now even if some of the secrets have been clawed back.

 

Sam just holds up his hands.

 

“Anything to help you out man. Just don’t go spilling state secrets everywhere.” Bucky almost cringes because he just happens to be one of the biggest world secrets ever unearthed, but he manages a tight-lipped smile.

 

“No secrets to spill but my own.” He catches Sam’s glance down at the covered up left arm and forces himself not to cower. Sam nudges Bucky’s left fingers and doesn’t flinch away at the contact with hard metal.

 

“We all got our secrets Bucky, you’re under no obligation to tell yours.”

 

*

 

He doesn’t actually meet Sharon until the next day, and when he does it’s a little bit of a shock to the system. Because right there, sat right next to Steve, is Agent 13. Admittedly, Bucky had no idea that her name was Sharon, didn’t really know anything beyond the fact that Agent Carter had been part of Natasha’s team to take down Hydra, thus taking down SHIELD and finding the Winter Soldier in the process. So seeing her here at first confuses him, and then makes him suspicious.

 

Steve seems to like her though, chatting with tattooed hands animated with gestures.

 

Bucky hesitates before pushing through the doors. He won’t let this break routine, not again, the best approach to this is the act like he isn’t the Winter Soldier and doesn’t notice every single bit of detail. Remain innocently oblivious just like some random guy on the street. Just like they all are to the things he’s done...well, all but Sharon. Just get the coffee and go.

 

“Hey Bucky, come sit over here.” Or maybe Steve is going to drag him right into the middle of it all. He tries not to cringe, not to turn tail and run straight away, and in some ways he succeeds, even if his voice is strained when he says,

 

“Hi Steve, lemme just order.” He jerks his thumb in Sam’s direction, looking fixedly at Steve and not at Sharon. He knows she recognises him, can feeling the scrutiny raking over his body.

 

Bucky orders a simple black coffee, throwing Sam off track for a moment.

 

“Hey Sam, who’s the dame Steve’s sat with.” Did he seriously just say dame? Today is a day full of surprises.

 

“Oh that’s Sharon, she comes in to see us now and again.” Sam says, “I used to work with her sometimes.”

 

Bucky swings his head round. As far as he knows Sharon is exclusively a SHIELD agent, Natasha had mentioned something about her being a spy. So Sam had to be highly ranked to be working with secret agents. The suspicion and paranoia dials up.

 

“So she’s ex-military?” Bucky pushes the question, remembering the times he had done undercover work with Natasha when she was KGB. She had been so young, but so much better in espionage than Bucky, who mainly served as the weapon disguised as a fake husband.

 

Sam makes a humming sound.

 

“More homeland security, you’d have to ask her.”

 

Oh he’s going to ask all right. If SHIELD have sent  people to keep an eye on him after they forced him into the open world he’s got a few choice words for them. Mostly to do with respecting his privacy, partly to do with letting him be useful. But Steve is there, and if there’s anything he’s certain of, it’s that Steve is in no way a SHIELD agent, and he can’t go causing a scene in front of a civilian. For now, he’ll be civil.

 

Taking the coffee, Bucky leaves the comfort of the counter side sitting to sit at the window table Steve and Sharon occupy. He quickly catalogues the best vantage point, sliding to the seat that grants the best view of the room, an empty space on his right, Steve on his left. Putting the metal arm so close to Steve sets his brain alight but sometimes compromises have to be made. The seat also faces Sharon, so each of her movements and change in expression can be seen.

 

Right now, beneath the layers of carefully schooled emotion, she looks wary of him. Of course she would look at him warily, last them they saw each other he was killing clean SHIELD agents under Pierce’s orders, and now he’s sat next to an oblivious civilian who he could snap like a twig. Despite the tension, Steve continues to be cheery.

 

“Bucky this is Sharon.”

 

“Nice to meet you” They don’t touch, Bucky really isn’t up for people touching him on a regular basis, let alone when he’s tense and paranoid.

 

“So Sharon, how do you know Steve?” Bucky asks with an overly curious tone that has Sharon tilting her head, smiling a little too sweetly.

 

“Sam introduced us. Steve has also done all the tattoos I have. He’s a friend.” The way she says ‘he’s a friend’ makes it clear to Bucky that if he makes a wrong move, she'd put herself between him and Steve within an instant. At least the protectiveness is sincere. It makes him doubt his earlier assumption.

 

“Sharon’s also related to Peggy.” Steve points out, sipping on green tea.

 

“Small world” Bucky says. Steve hums, doodling on a napkin with a ballpoint pen, etching a small star into the white. It makes him think of the red star on his shoulder. He glances down to make sure it’s covered.

 

“When did you meet Steve, Bucky?” Sharon asks, copying Bucky’s overly civil tone. He can feel the glass he’s treading on crushing underfoot as the two of them circle around each other. Picking up on the tension, Steve looks up, glancing between the two of them with a frown that forms a narrow crease between his brows. Bucky smiles like a razor blade.

 

“Last week, he warned me about Sam’s singing.” Sharon nods once; slowing taking a mouthful of the tea she’s drinking. Bucky watches, absorbing every detail from the curl of her fingers around the ceramic, to the subtle tension of her shoulders. He’s not sure if it’s his presence that bothers her, or the fact he’s the one who is tense that puts her on edge.

 

It’s Steve’s sneeze that breaks the tension, a sudden burst of sound that almost makes Bucky jump a mile out of his seat. His head swings round, caught somewhere between the rarely startled Winter Soldier and the concerned James Barnes. He watches as Steve blinks, wiping his hands on the napkin he had between doodling on before folding it up and shoving it in his pocket.

 

“Knew cold season would catch up eventually.” Steve says, reading Bucky’s face like an open book. “I’m just gonna get more tissue paper.”

 

Steve throws a pointedly look at Sharon before he leaves, as if to warn her against frightening him away. There’s mild irony in there somewhere. Bucky watches him go, heavy boots against the wood flooring sounding the retreat. He makes sure his eyes don’t venture any further down from the waist.

 

Sharon is looking at him with a calculating gaze when Bucky turns back, not wary as such, more curious than anything and for a moment he wonders just how much she knows. Natasha is protective when it comes to the Winter Soldier, any knowledge she has of him is only given to people she trusts. So instead, he lets paranoia take the wheel.

 

“Did SHIELD send you?”

 

“You think that just because I’m an agent that SHIELD has sent me to keep an eye on you?

 

“I wouldn’t put it past them.”

 

Sharon raises an eyebrow incredulously.

 

“If SHIELD wanted to keep an eye on you they wouldn’t send an agent to get in your face about it.”

 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” He knows it means that if SHEILD was watching him, then he wouldn’t know about it, which is plausible but not very reassuring. Privacy means everything after seventy years of having none of it. At least Sharon isn’t being condescending about it.

 

“It means I’m here to have coffee with my friends not spy on you, I’m off duty.” She visibly relaxes as if to prove a point, sitting back in the chair with fingers curved around the mug. The open body language makes Bucky settle a little, there’s no reason for her to lie. He leans back, brings his left arm across his chest.

 

“Sam said he used to work with you. Was he SHIELD too?”

 

“He did sometimes, and don’t you think that’s his story to tell you?”

 

“He said he was in the air force.”

 

Sharon smirks , half hidden behind a mug of tea.

 

“Something like that yes.”

 

Bucky cocks his head, picking up on Sharon’s amusement but missing the joke completely. If this was a bad cartoon a question mark would be popping up. Then again, if this was a bad cartoon, that question mark would be permanently suspended over his head. He glances over at Sam who is serving a couple with their arms around each other.

 

“So what? Is this some secret gathering place for secret service cast offs?”

 

That brings a smile to Sharon’s face. It will always astound Bucky just how different secret agents look when they’re removed from the fight, never truly relaxed, but relaxed just enough to let smiles come easier. Spies always look different when they’re wearing their own clothes under their own volition rather than to blend into the crowd. Yet Bucky knows there’s probably a knife in her boot and a gun hidden on her person, as said, no one is ever truly relaxed.

 

Still Sharon laughs.

 

“Or maybe Steve just attracts trouble, he is our common denominator after all.”

 

As if on cue, Steve’s boots can be heard crossing the floor once again, a bundle of tissue paper fisting in his hand. Bucky watches him, small and unassuming with a small case of the sniffles. How much trouble can this little guy really be?

 

*

 

“Spies are allowed to have a life outside of SHIELD James.” Natasha deadpans down the phone and Bucky can almost see her rolling her eyes at him.

 

“You know that’s not what I meant.”

 

“I’m sure she was just a surprised as you were, a bit like spiders are more afraid of you than you are of them.”

 

Bucky adjusts the phone do it lies pressed between his ear and shoulder as he wipes sweat away from his forehead.

 

“Did you really just?”

 

“Yep, but of course, in this analogy, you are the spider.”

 

“Rude.”

 

Natasha laughs. Bucky wants to say something about the Winter Soldier being scared of no one but that is not entirely true, the Winter Soldier is scared of a lot of people and a lot of things, some of which are a work in progress.

 

There’s a crash in the background, something that sounds like gunfire bursting into the life, making the phone crackle. Bucky sits up.

 

“Natalia is that gunfire?”

 

“I’m gonna have to call you back James, I’m a tad busy right now.” Natasha hastens to reply, “Be nice to Sharon.”

 

He doesn’t get a chance to reply before the phone line goes dead. Shaking his head a the phone screen, Bucky throws it into his gym bag, wrapping tape around his knuckles.

 

“No wait, lemme guess.” Clint says holding up one hand, “World saving had to go on hold so you could complain about coffee”

 

“She was multitasking.”    

 

Clint laughs as Bucky pulls himself up onto the gymnastic bars. They’re in the Avenger’s tower in  Manhattan (technically it’s the Stark tower but seeing as the triskelon fell to pieces, this is second best)  having taken up the advice to get Bucky out of the apartment and doing something active, even if it was just a simple work out rather than sparring.  Thankfully Clint had picked him up, meaning Bucky could avoid the inevitable near death experience that would have been the subway, even if Bucky had gripped the door of the car so tightly it would have crumpled if it had been the metal hand. Clint had complained about having the window down in such chilling weather but had made no effort to change it, knowing it would only increase the discomfort.  

 

Spinning around on the bars, Bucky revels in the long missed feeling of the stretch in his muscles. During the war his fighting style had been different, more like a battering ram than a subtle knife. In reality, the American’s had made the Winter Soldier, had trained him for special ops as fast as they could in the limited time the war permitted. But the Russians had fine tuned him, had combed through the skill already there, had sculpted it, smoothed out the edges. They gave him the super soldier serum when held captive before joining the Howling Commandoes, they gave him the metal arm after falling from such great heights, they had simultaneously given him everything whilst taking everything away.

 

Bucky hated them for it, yet there was a small part of him, a silent whisper of the Winter Soldier, that loved them for it.

 

“Ground control to Bucky Barnes, do you copy?” Clint had been talking to him, but his words had been lost. Bucky blinks, stilling to hang from the bars like a drying piece of meat.

 

“Do you ever miss being in the field?” Bucky says out of nowhere, dropping silently from the bars. “I mean, when you’re on leave?”

 

‘Well that would explain the murder look that came over your face” Clint dials down the treadmill. “I don’t know, when I’m on leave I always know I’m going back so I guess it’s not something I think about. I’m just happy I don’t have to get up at ass crack of dawn and I can eat pizza in my underwear anytime I want.”

 

Bucky makes a face, inspecting one of the weights machines and wondering if it’s any real point in giving it a shot.

 

“Why, you missing the field?”

 

“No… I don’t know.” Bucky shrugs, worrying the fabric of his sleeve  and gazing down at metal fingers no longer covered by a glove.  He sits cross legged on the floor, unsure what to do with himself. He can feel Clint looking at him. “I know being in combat will be dangerous right now, but hearing Nat kind of makes me miss it.”

 

Maybe it’s because of the guilt, knowing that a lot of the chaos right now is all his fault, no matter who says otherwise. Maybe it’s because he’s the Winter Soldier and always has been. You can the boy away from the fight, but you can’t take the fight away from the boy.

 

“Maybe we can sort something out for you, help relieve you of that soldier’s curse.”  

 

For some reason that makes Bucky crack a smile, Clint has a habit of doing that somehow. Reaching across the floor to get his iPod out of his gym bag, Bucky hops up and over to the treadmills.

 

“Fine, lets see how fast you can go on this thing and for how long.” Bucky says, holding his finger down on the dial and slowly moving into a jog.

 

“No fair, unlike some people I don’t have super serum or whacky science to help me cheat” Clint whines, but turns up the speed to match Bucky anyway.

 

“it’s not cheating, it’s tactical advantage.”

 

“Tactical advantage my ass. If I die, you’re carrying me home”  

 

“Deal”

 

*

 

“Hey you actually put some music on here.” Clint says, sounding way too over excited as they drive, Bucky’s iPod plugged into the car stereo. “Not too shabby either. I was expected a 101 of the 40’s greatest.”

 

“Sam put on most of the songs, I left it with him and got it back with 2000 songs that I still haven’t worked my way through.” Bucky says, no bothering to mention that he can’t remember what he used to listen to in the 40’s. In memories of dance halls and bars with the Howling Commandoes are filled with empty speech bubbles and the crackle of static.

 

“Sam?”

 

“Yeah, he works at a coffee shop I go to a lot, volunteers down the VA, ex-military.” Yet again, he keeps the suspicion about Sam’s involvement in SHIELD to himself, not wanted to compromise the data until he can draw a proper conclusion.

 

“Huh, tell him he has a good music taste.”

 

“I’ll pass the message on.”

 

They drive in relative silence through the congested traffic, Bucky half dozing in the passenger seat, but constantly jerking back into awareness when there’s a loud noise or a larger vehicle goes past. In the end Bucky makes Clint pull over a few blocks away from the apartment because he can’t stand the inside of the car anymore, swinging out the car and onto the curb, leaning through the partially open window.

 

“Alright, so I’ll be back in a couple of days for babysitting again. Don’t tell Nat I gave you sugar.”

 

“It wasn’t even half a bar out of the vending machine.” It was disheartening really, only being able to take two small bites out of a Mars bar before feeling sick, passing the leftovers into Clint’s grabby hands and then into Clint’s big mouth.

 

“Still, don’t tell Nat, otherwise she’ll send someone less fun to babysit you.”

 

Bucky holds his hands up in defeat, drawing his hand across his mouth in a zip motion. Clint grins.

 

“That’s more like it, see you soon pal.” Bucky raises his hand in goodbye as Clint pulls away from the curb.

 

Bucky waits until the car has gone before walking, listening to the flow of traffic and the noise from the buildings. He didn’t like walking around with earphones in, too distracting, making him feel too much like he was walking through a tunnel of echoing sounds rather than a wide field of awareness. Not being aware of any potential threats was not an option. Besides, working out and getting rid of the excess energy has made him feel relaxed and loose limbed, making him able to walk down the street without feeling like a tightly wound ball of springs for once.

 

He passes _Falconry_ on the way, peering through the window at the empty shop having just reached closing time. Sam could be anywhere by now, doing anything with totally different people. Despite the events with Sharon, Bucky still trusts Sam, trusts him enough to respect his privacy at the very least. A glance is spared in the direction of the tattoo parlour, where the shop is empty and the doors are locked, the windows of the apartment above shedding no light. He almost doesn’t think about what Steve might be doing, but caves at the very last second.  Maybe cooking dinner, what would someone like Steve Rogers’ cook for dinner?

 

Maybe he’s with Peggy, or Sharon, or attracting trouble just like Sharon said he does. Bucky huffs at himself. Steve, with his button ups and his glasses and his long fingers, how much trouble can he really attract?

 

Well it turns out Bucky is about to find out, because only a matter of minutes later, Steve Rogers comes walking round the corner, colliding with Bucky’s chest with a thud and a gasp. Bucky stops himself from attacking at the very last second, hands landing on Steve’s shoulders with more force than he means to, attempting to gently hold Steve out at arm’s length.

 

“Bucky! Oh I’m so sorry.” Steve hastens to say, but Bucky can only focus on the bruised juts of his knuckles and the blood gathering around his nostrils. Doing a quick calculation of the speed and force of the impact, Bucky concluded that it wasn’t enough to do that kind of damage, so that had to come from another source.

 

“What happened?” Bucky snaps, brow furrowing deeply and he swears he doesn’t know why all his actions are coming out with more force than necessary. Maybe it’s the surprise. Maybe he doesn’t have such a good grip on his emotions as he first thought.

 

Steve shifts uncomfortably under Bucky’s gaze, but makes no move to remove Bucky’s hands from his shoulder. Nor does Steve move his hand from where it’s fisting in the sleeve of Bucky’s right arm, or the other hand from the opening of Bucky’s jacket.  He removes one of them to gingerly dab the blood oozing slowly from one nostril.

 

“Don’t worry about it.” Steve says with a half hearted smile and doe eyes that could make anyone in their right mind do whatever the little punk wanted. Luckily, Bucky was not in his right mind at all. Instead, he’s calculating, using the extensive knowledge of anatomy pumped into his brain.

 

“Who hit you?” Because someone had hit Steve, not hard enough to break his nose, but enough to start a very minor nosebleed. And Steve had hit back if the angry red bruises on his knuckles were anything to go by. There are probably grazes on his palms from where he’d fallen back, given the fact that Steve is most likely as light as a feather.

 

Steve looks like he’s ready to take the verbal defensive.

 

“Just some guy, and it was hardly a hit, it didn’t even hurt.” A hot flash of anger tears through Bucky’s brain, unexpected and irrational, and despite only knowing Steve for a matter of weeks, Bucky finds that the Winter Soldier part of him wants to find whoever this guy is and rip them limb from limb. It’s a surprising feeling, a little like being jumped on from behind or hit on the back of the head with a blunt object.  

 

“Besides” Steve decides to add fuel to the fire, “It ain’t the first time I’ve been hit.”

 

Bucky’s mind boggles at the flippant nature of it all.  

 

“I...you, c’mon, lets get ya cleaned up.”

 

“It’s fine really, I can deal with it myself.” Steve finally withdraws from Bucky’s hold, hands falling away from the opening of his coat to fish around his pocket for a folded tissue, collecting up the blood from his nose. Bucky presses his lips into a thin line, rocking back slightly.

 

“Fine” Bucky crosses his arms, “How about that rain check then?”

 

Steve narrows his eyes.

 

“You’re seriously using that now?”

 

“Yep.”

 

Steve rolls his eyes and Bucky is pretty sure the smile on his face is coming across as smug, he certainly feels smug.

 

“I can’t believe you.” Steve huffs, walking ahead and allows Bucky to follow behind. It’s a small victory. Steve glances behind a few times, put off by the way Bucky follows behind rather than besides, but this way he has a good look at the street ahead and the back of Steve’s body, for safety reasons of course, not because Steve is yet again wearing another pair of ridiculously tight jeans. The Winter Soldier is nothing but professional. In the end Steve resigns to the fact, it also means he can pretend to be in a huff for longer.

 

It’s a short distance back to the shop and before long Steve is unlocking the door to his apartment with a jangle of keys. As soon as the door swings open, Captain is bounding up to Steve, tongue lolling out his mouth as Steve bends to scratch his ears.

 

“Hey boy. I’ll take you out in a sec, just after the nurse has patched me up.” Steve dumps his keys and wallet on the coffee table before turning back to Bucky who stands in the doorway. “Make yourself at home, I’ll just grab the first aid kit.”

 

With the given permission, Bucky steps through and closes the front door behind him. The door opens out straight into a tiny living room and to the left is a kitchen separated by a breakfast bar, to the right there’s the door to the bathroom and a set of stairs that must lead up to the bedroom. But what really bombards Bucky is the copy of Monnet’s water lilies painted onto the living room falls and bleeding into the kitchen before the paint meets titles. It wraps the entire room in a perfect mess of vibrant brushstrokes and soft colour and it pulls Bucky’s breath straight out of his lungs. If anything, it makes him feel out of place, an intrusive object unwanted in the middle of such beautiful things.

 

He doesn’t notice Captain until the dog’s head butts against his knee, sniffing at Bucky until deciding that he’d much rather have attention from the new human inside the apartment. Bucky crouches, stroking his fingers through silky golden fur, the dog’s tail wagging happily.

 

Steve steps back through the bathroom door with a box under one arm. There’s a few droplets of water on his face and most of the blood has been washed away. Crouched down like this, Bucky notices the scruffs on knees of Steve’s jeans, not enough to rip the fabric but enough to mark the surface. Steve sets everything down on the breakfast bar and pulls up onto a stool.

 

“Calling nurse Bucky to the med bay.” Steve calls, trying not the laugh at his own joke. Bucky just rolls his eyes and rises to his feet, following after Captain who obediently goes to sit at his owner’s feet (feet which are dangling in the air because they can’t reach the floor.)

 

“Very funny.” He sighs, leaning across the opposite side of the counter and gently taking Steve’s hand. His skin is warm and palm surprisingly rough, a bleeding graze scuffing up the inside. His fingers uncurl slowly, eyes glancing up at Bucky’s and sticking. “Let me.”

 

Steve swallows, tongue flicking out over his bottom lip as he nods. Now, in all honesty, Bucky doesn’t know a single thing about medical care. Despite all the knowledge of anatomy and advance science and mathematics Hydra had pumped into his brain, they had deliberately left out medical care, leaving the Winter Soldier utterly dependent on them whenever an injury was sustained. But Natasha had patched him up enough times since being released from hospital that Bucky at least knew how to clean very minor injuries. 

 

Gently he cleans out the all the dirt and grit from the graze with disinfectant, making Steve wince with the sting, fingers twitching. He tries to t ouch Steve with his left hand as little as possible, but fails, the sensors on his fingers picking up stifled heat and the muffled pulse point at the wrist, the glove acting as a barrier. Steve can probably feel the hardness of the metal, but thankfully says nothing.

 

“You didn’t tell me how you got all this.” Bucky says, pointedly looking at the wound.  Steve sighs, his other hand reaching up to brush hair out his eyes.

 

“I just don’t like bullies, so if someone is harassing someone or just generally being a jerk then I can’t just walk on by. Sometimes that ends a few punches being thrown. People don’t tend to like it when a twig of a guy starts calling them out.” Steve huffs out a laugh. It makes Bucky falter because is anyone is a bully it’s him, a bully and a killer but most of all a coward.

 

“So what? You throw yourself in front of harms way just to spare someone else the trouble?”

 

“Well someone gotta do it.”

 

Bucky doesn’t glance up, afraid that if he does Steve will see right through him.

 

“Look” Steve continues, “I just get real mad when people think they can treat others like dirt. Life’s too short for that.”

 

It’s a strange concept, Bucky’s been alive so long, has selfishly hoarded other people’s lifetimes. He’s ninety-five in a twenty-five year old body, yet, he hasn’t  felt like he’s actually living since the start of the second world war.

 

“Life’s too short for you to go cutting it short.” Bucky mumbles. Steve gets this pinched look on his face, almost like the statement struck a nerve. He withdraws his hands once Bucky puts the disinfectant aside.

 

They look at each other, the conversation hanging thick between them and for a moment Bucky doesn’t feel like shrinking inside a shell and hiding away, he wants Steve to see him, not as who he is, but as he wants to be. A good man. He was a good man once, before the US army turned him in a soldier and the Soviets turned him into a weapon. Maybe he can be a good man again.

 

Steve rubs the back of his neck.

 

“I really need to walk my dog, so if you want to come…” The end of the sentence trails off, falling through the air and leaving question marks hanging from his lips. As much as Bucky wants to curl up on the sofa, safe within the warm walls of the apartment, he doesn’t want to intrude on the space or leave Steve’s side just yet.

 

“Yeah sure, only if Captain doesn’t mind.” They both look down at the dog who sits looking between them.

 

“I’m sure he won’t mind.” Steve smiles, “Captain, walk time.” With that the dog bounds up, running across the room to fetch his lead from the table and bringing it back for Steve to secure on his red, white and blue collar.

 

“Wow, you have him well trained.”

 

“Yeah, he helps me with things sometimes.” Steve shrugs, making it obvious that he doesn’t want to go into detail about it. “Alright, so is there anywhere you want to go? Or should I just give you the grand tour?”

 

Bucky smiles and it doesn’t feel forced.

 

“Lead the way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> everything has been a bit hectic right now so excuse the poor editing and the lateness 
> 
> Bucky is listening to Frank Ocean by the way

**Author's Note:**

> ****  
> [tumblr ](http://caaptains.tumblr.com/)   
> 


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